


Feels Like We Could Go On

by psychoticfire (orphan_account)



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - They Both Die At The End, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Canon-Typical Behavior, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda, M/M, Short Chapters, Suicide Attempt, major character death but only eventually and expectedly, sometimes, yeah its based on the book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 01:23:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18561067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/psychoticfire
Summary: “Hello, I’m calling from Death-Cast. Is this Mark Evan Hansen?”“Hello, I’m calling from Death-Cast. Is this Con—?”"Yeah. I'm Connor Murphy."When Evan receives his call from Death-Cast, a company that calls people on the day of their death, and tells them about it a couple or twenty-four hours beforehand—a company that's never wrong, he breaks down. Dying on the first day of his senior year... Well, at least this means he doesn't have to worry about prom, right?When Connor receives his call from Death-Cast, he feels relieved. Or, he's supposed to—right? After two years of trying to off himself to no avail because of the lack of a damn phone call, he's finally dying. He should feel relieved. So, why doesn't he?When two boys meet on the last day of their lives, not knowing when the other would die, only knowing that they inevitably would within the next 24 hours, the last thing they expect is a real friendship, let alone an actual connection between them. But turns out, when your life is ending and you have no way to prevent it, relationships blossom real fast.inspired by the bookThey Both Die at the Endby Adam Silvera





	1. 0:00

“Hello, I’m calling from Death-Cast. Is this Mark Evan Hansen?”

Evan freezes up.

He knows this was coming. They all do. Death-Cast—a company that calls people on the day of their death, and tells them about it a couple hours or twelve hours beforehand. No one knows how they knew, although there’s been many theories. Everyone knows one thing, though—Death-Cast is never wrong.

And they all know that the call was coming—that their death was coming.

Evan, too, knows, crystal clear, that he would die someday, and that day would start with this exact phone call.

He just isn’t expecting his phone to ring _today,_ of all days. The first day of his senior year. Or rather—seven hours away from the first day of senior year. The digital clock on his bedside table blinks steadily, the 0:00 displayed clear as day.

He shifts his grip on his phone, trying his best to calm his heart and resisting the urge to hang up on the woman on the other side of the line. “Y—Yeah. I—I’m Evan.”

“Evan, I regret to inform you that sometime in the next twenty-four hours you’ll be meeting an untimely death. And while there isn’t anything we can do to suspend that, you still have a chance to live.”

They all know how this goes. The herald—person calling from the company, Death-Cast—“regretfully” informs you of your impending death, and offers you a bunch of coupons and special offers for you to live your last day to the fullest, like Evan’s herald is doing right now.

They won’t provide you with any details as to the specific moment of your death, or to how it would happen.

They only tell you that it happens.

“Evan? Do you understand all this?” The woman from Death-Cast sounds not unsympathetic, but there’s a hint of impatience in her voice.

Evan forces his vocal cords to work. “Yes.”

“Please log on to death-cast.com within the next few hours and complete all instructions regarding your funeral.”

His funeral.

Evan feels like he’s in a dream. A weird, unbelievably realistic dream, because there is no way that this is him right now, that it’s _him_ who’d just received the calm phone call telling him about his unavoidable death within the day.

A few days ago, he was stressing about school, about friends, about whether or not his broken arm was going to go unnoticed and his cast unsigned, about college, about tuition—

And now, none of that mattered. Because he’d be dead within the day.

The woman pauses. “Evan?” she repeats.

“Yeah,” he rasps. He wouldn’t cry. Not during this call.

The woman exhales, sounding sincerely regretful. She’s probably a new recruit on the communications team of the company—from what Evan had heard, the heralds rarely sound like they care. “On behalf of Death-Cast, we are sorry to lose you. Please live this day to the fullest.”

Then she hangs up, and Evan stares at his phone in muted shock and horror.

How's he supposed to even _live_ this day when he knows he’s dying?

Evan’s mind starts whirling, his anxiety kicking in—how was he going to die? A car accident? Maybe he would neglect to look both ways before crossing the street, or leave the house without turning off the stove and come back to a gas bomb? A shooter? A gang assault? Would he fall into a gutter? Get hit by a bus?

He needs to tell his mom. Evan scrambles for the phone app, the screen suddenly seeming too bright, too dark, too piercing, too much— He can’t find the app, his eyesight dimming as he starts hyperventilating.

His breath starts coming in short, panicked gasps. He lets go of his phone and curls in on himself, still on his bed and dressed for sleep, letting the panic attack wash over him. _Oh, god. Oh, fuck. I’m dying today. I’m_ dying _today._

He isn’t ready. He isn’t fucking ready, but here it is.

Evan Hansen would be dead within the next 24 hours. And there’s nothing he, or anyone else, can do to prevent it.

\---

Connor Murphy tilts his head back and gazes up at the night sky. He’s at a park, in the middle of the night—he can’t sleep, and a walk's usually the easiest way to clear his head. That, and a quick joint.

He’d received a call earlier that late night. It's currently 0:03—the caller’s bound to call back again soon. After all, it wasn’t just any call.

Now, Connor knows all about death. Way more than the average teenager. Way more than the average person, really. He’d had his share of close encounters—none of which were accidental, mind you.

People think he was insane. Not because he’s depressed, or suicidal, or any of that. People ask him why he even tried with offing himself if he hadn’t received his call earlier that day.

His answer’s always the same. _Can’t hurt to try._

Except it did hurt. Every single damn time. Especially since it meant getting hospitalized and receiving pitying looks from the nurses. Going back to school a few days or weeks later, and pretending to not notice everyone’s stares and whispers. A few attempts later, he’d grudgingly promised his family and therapist that he wouldn’t try it again.

So, to be honest, Connor’s pretty fucking relieved when his phone started ringing again. At least, that’s what he thought.

He picks up the call. “Yeah.”

“Hello, I’m calling from Death-Cast. Is this—”

“Yeah,” Connor repeats. “I’m Connor Murphy.”

The herald didn’t sound surprised by Connor’s tone. “Connor, I regret to inform you that sometime in the next twenty-four hours you’ll be meeting an untimely death. And while there isn’t anything we can do to suspend that, you still have a chance to live.”

Connor soaks it all in. To his surprise, he didn’t feel relief. And that bothered him.

“You can log onto death-cast.com and see all your choices for a unmissable discount at five-star restaurants. Don’t forget to login in the next few hours to fill in all information regarding your funeral.”

 _You make it sound so exciting._ Connor takes another deep inhale from his still-burning joint. The herald’s tone is beginning to annoy him—not because Connor's dreading his death, or something. It's because the man’s supposed to be the deliverer of the worst news in someone’s life—quite literally. And he’s giving the news with all the sympathy of a telephone pole.

“Do you understand all this?” the herald asks, his tone monotonous and bored. He’s probably playing Galactica on his monitor in that moment. He definitely doesn’t care about some dying teenager on the other end of the line.

“Mhm.” Connor leans back against the park bench.

“On behalf of Death-Cast,” the man drones, “We are sorry to lose you. Please live this day to the fullest.”

Connor snaps at that—the flat, uninterested way the herald’s delivering those words, the words that are supposed to be condolences and goodbyes. “And on behalf of every single poor soul you’re going to call in the next five minutes, go and fuck yourself with your telephone receiver.”

He hangs up on the herald, and shoves his phone back into his pocket.

Dropping his blunt and smashing it with the heel of his foot, Connor sighs and stands up. He starts walking home—if he’s going to die that day, it's going to be by his own hand, and not by the call of some douchebag herald from a mysterious company.

And he knows where the sleeping pills are.


	2. 0:10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your mom isn't going anywhere.  
> Your mom is staying right here.  
> Your son isn't staying for long.  
> So it's time for him to act strong.

Evan gets to his feet, shakily. He clutches his phone in his hand, and makes his way out of his room, heading for the kitchen. He needs some water.

Stumbling down the stairs, Evan beelines for the kitchen faucet, grabbing a cup and filling it to the brim before gulping the majority of its contents down. He sets the empty cup gently down on the kitchen counter—being careful not to drop it or to set it down too hard—and holds his phone up again.

He has to tell his mom. He has to.

Fingers shaking, Evan enters his mom’s number, and presses _Call_. The phone rings for quite a long period of time, and he’s beginning to doubt whether or not his mom would pick up at all when the receiver clicks and Heidi’s voice drifts through the speakers. “Evan, honey, I can’t really talk right now—”

 _Of course you can’t. You never can._ Evan starts to say something, starts to tell his mom about the call, about not needing to work double shifts anymore in hopes of getting him a solid college tuition, not needing to worry about her mess of a son anymore, but the words dies in his mouth. “Ye—Yeah, I know, it’s just…” He exhales. “I know.”

“Sweetie, are you okay?” His mom’s anxious tone fades into something more concerned. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

 _No, you don’t_. Evan shifts. _But I don’t even have a day._

_I should tell her. I need to tell her._

“I—” Evan tries, but falters. “I… I love you, Mom.”

Heidi pauses. “I love you, too. Evan, where’s all this coming from?”

Evan exhales shakily, his vision blurring again. “Mom, I—I got the call.”

There’s a period of shocked silence. Then— “Death-Cast?” his mom asks shakily.

Evan nods, before remembering that his mom can’t see him. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“Oh, honey.” There’s a rustling noise from the other side of the call, and then Heidi’s voice— “I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

“Mom, you don’t need to—” Evan starts to say, but is cut off by a muffled reply on his mom’s end.

“I don’t care. I need to go home.” Another sentence Evan can’t hear, then his mom raising her voice angrily. “I don’t care! Listen, my son received his call today. Okay? So I’m going home, _right now_ , because my _son_ is _dying_ , and I want to be there for him because I never goddamn have been!”

A period of silence, then Heidi’s sigh. “Two hours,” she whispers, as if repeating something. “Fine.”

“Mom?” Evan asks, wiping at his eyes furiously, his face stinging as he harshly scrubs the sleeve of his shirt against it. “Are you okay?”

His mom takes a deep breath, as if steadying herself. “Yes,” she says. “Evan, sweetie, I’ll be home in ten minutes. Please… Please be careful.”

“I will,” he replies. Heidi hangs up, not wanting to hinder her driving with a simultaneous phone call, even though it might’ve been safer if she’d stayed on the line. After all, she’s not the one dying today. They both know that for a fact.

Evan slides to his knees in the middle of the kitchen, glancing around anxiously. It seems like the safest he could ever be, but deaths could happen unexpectedly—in the shower, in the car, in school, in the kitchen. Maybe a knife would fall and impale him.

Stifling a sob, Evan buries his face in his hands, and stays curled up in the corner of the kitchen, waiting for his mom to come home.


	3. 0:15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't need you to remind me of all that's been broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know 'only us' is supposed to be a romantic song, but the lyric works here in a completely unromantic way

The Murphys’ home is huge and visibly uncomfortable. It looms over its neighboring houses, which Connor always found, quite frankly, embarrassing. Even from a distance, he can see the outline of it, stark against the black night.

Connor quickly beelines to the side of it and hops the small fence surrounding his home, circling to where his bedroom window was. He pushes his window open—it wasn’t locked, since he’d come out that way as well—and hoists himself up, sliding into his room with no huge difficulty.

As soon as he’s in his room, Connor goes for the light switches, turning them on. Doesn’t matter if his family wakes up. He’d be dead soon, one way or another.

His room is messy, hoodies and shirts scattered all over the floor and a few books alongside them. Connor aims a small kick at a dirty shirt, scuffing his boots along his room’s carpeted floor. No point in cleaning his room if he’s dying, right? There’s no point in anything, now.

Connor steps out of his room and squints as he closes the door behind him, leaving him alone in a dark hallway. He goes straight for the bathroom down the hall and stumbles in, not bothering to lock the door or even close it.

He flings open the medicine cabinet hidden behind the mirror and closes his fingers shakily around a small bottle of Cynthia’s sleeping pills. He shakes it—it rattles in his grip, almost comfortingly.

Unscrewing the cap, Connor upends the pills into his palm. He peers at them in the darkness—in his hurry, he didn’t turn on the lights—and closes his fist around the little pellets.

_He’s dying today._

Well, no postponing the inevitable. Better sooner than later, right?

Connor tilts his head back and raises his gripped fist up to mouth-level.

“Connor?”

The boy in question freezes as a wash of light flooded the bathroom, and stays unmoving, even as his calm gaze meets his sister’s horrified one. Zoe’s wearing a tank top and sweatpants—clearly, she’d gotten up just to use the bathroom for a second. She definitely hadn’t been expecting to find her brother, silent in the darkness, seconds away from killing himself.

“Zoe,” Connor finally says, his voice rough. He doesn’t lower his fist.

“Connor,” Zoe repeats, her voice faltering. “Are you—What are you doing?”

Connor doesn’t answer.

“What’s in your hand?” Zoe asks, her tone growing suspicious.

“Nothing,” he says evenly.

“Is that Mom’s pill bottle?” Zoe strides over to Connor and grabs the discarded empty bottle. “It’s empty.”

She whirls on Connor. “Give me your hand.”

“No.”

“Connor Murphy, give me your hand, or so help me, I will scream and wake this whole house up,” Zoe seethes, and Connor blinks in surprise. Did that mean she _isn’t_ going to tell their parents?

Resignedly, Connor lowers his fist and held it out to Zoe. His sister pries his fingers open and pales at the sight of a veritable heap of pills inside. “Why?” she whispers.

Before Connor can say anything, words start spilling out of Zoe’s mouth. “You _said_ you wouldn’t do this again!” she exclaims, and Connor starts towards her, free hand held out in a placating manner—trying to calm her down before she woke their parents up. Zoe backs up. “You told us you wouldn’t try to—You know you can’t—”

“Zoe,” Connor hisses urgently, then makes up his mind. He extends his arm towards the open toilet and drops the pills in, emptying his hand of them. Zoe watches with bright eyes. “Listen to me.”

“Why should I,” she says flatly.

“Look, don’t wake—”

“Why would you do it, Connor?” Zoe blurts. “ _Why?_ You _promised.”_

Connor sighs, fishing out his phone. He didn’t want his family to know about the call—he’d wanted to interact with them as little as possible on his End Day, his last day of living, but he’s been backed into a corner. He doesn’t want his family meddling, but he absolutely abhors the idea of spending his End Day in under suicide watch.

Interrupting Zoe’s rant, he thumbs the screen to his call record, and holds it out for Zoe to see. His sister backs up a few steps to properly read the screen. When she finishes, all the blood drains from her face.

“You got the call?” she asks quietly, her voice weak. Connor only nods.

Zoe stays silent, eyes flicking from the phone screen, to Connor, to the toilet where he’d just thrown the pills in. If Connor doesn’t know better, he’d say Zoe’s eyes are shining with more than just suspicion now.

He doesn’t know what his sister’s going to do. Maybe she would run off and tell their parents. Maybe she’d go back to sleeping, leaving him to whatever remains of his sad life. Maybe she’d laugh and say, “Finally.”

But Connor doesn’t expect Zoe to throw her arms around him and squeeze painfully tightly, knocking the breath out of him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Zoe’s arms tighten, somehow, and Connor inhales sharply.

“I thought you hate me,” is all he can manage.

“I did! I do,” Zoe says, releasing him and stepping back, looking up to meet Connor’s gaze, her eyes now definitely filled with tears. “I hate you, Connor. I’ve hated you since you threatened to break down my door, since you tore this family apart.”

Connor makes to interrupt, but Zoe holds up a hand. “Let me finish.”

“Okay.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s fair.”

“But you’re still my brother,” Zoe says, and her voice cracks. “You’re still my goddamn brother, and I still love you. You were—you _are_ —an abusive piece of shit, and I’m not going to say that was okay. But…” She trails off, falteringly. “Connor, you’re _dying_.”

“I don’t remember you being this emotional when I tried offing myself,” Connor says, a bit too harshly. He regrets it, once he saw Zoe flinch.

“I was _panicking_ ,” Zoe bites out. “I cared! I cared, even though I probably should have saved myself the trouble. I never got emotional _around you_ because you would’ve probably just used it against me. Besides, we—we checked your calls every time you… every time. You weren’t dying.”

“I was just stupid,” Connor says dryly.

“Yeah,” Zoe says. A tear finally falls, tracking a faint mark down her cheek, and Connor watches in subtle awe. He doesn’t know anyone’s still capable of crying for him. “Yeah, you really are.”

Then Zoe hugs him again, and this time, Connor hugs her back.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, yeah. i know. _you've got a bunch of unfinished works, quinn!!! finals are coming up, quinn!!!!! youve got a game to make, quinn!!_
> 
> i make bad life decisions but they're _creative_ life decisions so its fair


End file.
